Pitch in the squeezed-out lime shell and top off with club soda or seltzer.

Serve with a stirring rod.

This one responds well to playing around, as long as you keep it within limits. There are some who like to replace the sugar with 2 teaspoons cane syrup; it's hard to find here, but you can make a pretty good substitute by bringing a cup of Demerara sugar ("Sugar in the Raw" works) to a gentle boil with 1/2 cup water; keep refrigerated. In either case, it adds a nice mellowness to the thing. Some—cocktail historian and restaurant critic William Grimes, for one—prefer their mojitos to be Draques, sin fizz. That's good, too. We like ours with the fizz, though, but also with a tablespoon of 151-proof Demerara rum floated on top. Another wrinkle has to do with the mint. The Cuban species, "yerba buena," is different from the standard U.S. spearmint; supposedly, the Cuban stuff is available. Worth keeping an eye out for.

* Depending on how sweet you like 'em; we like ours a bit tart.

** Bacardi is, of course, traditional; for a fuller, slightly rummier taste, try Brugal, from the Dominican Republic, or Angostura, from Trinidad.

The Wondrich Take:

On many a sultry August afternoon, we've given thanks for that attractive force which brings forth the half-breed, the mestizo, the bastard. For the mojito, you see, is the illegitimate offspring of the tropical daiquiri and the good old Kentucky Mint Julep, but taller than either. Well, actually, its bastardy is only metaphorical, since in historical fact the drink has not a lot to do with the Bluegrass State. Not to mention the fact that it predates the daiquiri, at least in its embryonic form. Kinda makes the whole thing impossible, biologically speaking. The mojito, y'see, is a spiffed-up version of the old Cuban Draque, or "Drake" (after Sir Francis, who knocked about the Caribbean quite a bit in his day). A mix of aguardiente de cana, which is nothing more than raw, unaged rum, sugar, lime, and mint, this Draque thingamajig was a popular favorite with the working folk of that fertile and thirsty island, back in the second quarter of the nineteenth century—that's when, at least, it turns up (as the "Draquecito") in "El Colera en la Habana," a story by Cuban poet/novelist Ramón de Palma. The daiquiri doesn't show up until the very end of the century.

At some point—it'd have to be after Don Facundo Bacardi, of the Bacardi Bacardis, set up shop in 1862—some posh so-and-so upscaled the aguardiente into white rum, at which point somebody threw in a little ice, somebody else topped the whole thing off with seltzer, and another somebody changed the name to a word meaning -- well, we're not quite sure, but it has something to do with getting wet. The earliest reference to the completed product in our archives here at the Esquire Institute for Advanced Mixology comes from 1931. That is when it turns up in a souvenir cocktails pamphlet Sloppy Joe's Bar in Havana was giving away. There, it appears twice—under "Bacardi Drinks" and again under "Gordon Dry Gin Cocktails." (Dedicated professionals, we've tested both; we'll stick with rum, but the other was certainly no hardship.)

Whatever the complexities of its heritage, this Cuban cooler has become wildly popular over the last couple of years, one of the few bright signs in a cocktail culture that has brought us the hideous Apple Martini and what-have-you. It's a clean, simple drink that lets you get a considerable amount of the creature under your belt with almost no pain or fuss. Hemingway liked 'em, of course—there's a much-touted and doubtless completely unauthentic little jingle about which Havana bar he prefers for mojitos and which for daiquiris. It's nice to have regular habits and all, but that man would drink anything anywhere. And why not?